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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.

Anne Sexton

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Anne Sexton
Age: 45 †
Born: 1928
Born: November 9
Died: 1974
Died: October 4
Poet
Writer
Newton
Massachusetts
Anne Gray Harvey
Although
Maybe
Heart
Like
Zeppelin
Zeppelins
Kitten
Butter
Blowing

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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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Mood can be as important as sense.
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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sorrow is easier than guilt.
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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
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